


Basic Notes on the Observation of the Common Human Being

by stravaganza



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Childhood Memories, Diary/Journal, Season/Series 01, Sherlock-centric, introspective, social ineptitude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 03:32:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10845609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stravaganza/pseuds/stravaganza
Summary: Sherlock has a hard time understanding people. Maybe that's why he's so surprised when someone understands him.





	Basic Notes on the Observation of the Common Human Being

**Author's Note:**

> Writer's block is not over.

If you were to ask any member of the Holmes family, they would all agree, without fail, that the month following Sherlock’s school admission was the hardest of the young man’s life.

“Racing cars are stupid.”

Because, as it soon became apparent, Sherlock’s trouble relationing with people wasn’t limited to Mycroft – a sibling, seven years his elder, quite understandable – but, on the contrary, it was expanded to pretty much everyone the boy came in contact with.

“Take it back!”

Little Sherlock Holmes, you see, had a brilliant mind when it came to maths and art. All of his teachers were astonished by the boy’s sheer brilliance, so much that they had immediately called the Holmes estate to inform the family of another genius in their midst (as if they could, somehow, be unaware of the fact).

“Why?”

The problem with praise is that it only lasts so long and, sure enough, the phone calls soon turned tides and became notification after notification of “problematic behaviour” and “signs of manipulative tendencies”. Having been through it with Mycroft already, the Holmeses decided to not give the matter too much weight, and limited their intervention to writing regular letters to their youngest son with suggestions on how to bear with his peers at the boarding school.

Mycroft, having been through it personally, knew exactly how to deal with such a situation, and well aware of his brother’s predisposition for science and endless curiosity, he opted for a different, much more effective approach.

“Because it’s not true!”

Sherlock was shoved backwards by a boy a couple of years older than himself, stumbling helplessly until his bum hit the gravel littering the courtyard. Sherlock frowned and looked up, the boy towering over him, fists clenched and face red, as if he were about to cry.

Sherlock, did not understand.

“It’s true to me. I think they’re stupid.”

It wasn’t the first time he went to bed with a black eye, and it wouldn’t be the last.

***

In the many years it took Sherlock to graduate, from primary school to college, he would often resort to his notebook. Mycroft had sent it to him all that time ago, back in boarding school, with a note suggesting he used it to study his fellow Etonians and a challenge on whether that would make him better with people. At the time, Sherlock followed Mycroft’s suggestions like gospel, even though he would never have admitted it, but he also never did what the man told him to do.

So, while he ended up making a lot of use out of his leather-bound journal, his name written in Mycroft’s elegant calligraphy inside the cover – _Property of William Sherlock Scott Holmes II_ – Sherlock also ended up not getting better with people. At all.

Today, a couple of months away from getting his degree in Chemistry, he came back to the notebook.

Beneath his name, in Mycroft’s sixteen years old elegant handwriting, was the title he had given to his notes, in his nine years old scrawling handwriting – _Basic Notes on the Observation of the Common Human Being._ It had felt very scientific when he had first written it, but over time it had started to sound way too redundant and pompous. That was the way with children, teen Sherlock supposed, and he had been no different. Clearly.

Today, Sherlock went back to the notes from November 9th, 1993, looking for a specific event that had lead to a scuffle, a split lip and an official notice sent home to his parents from the principal’s office.

The notebook read, still in that scrawly handwriting:

_Observation on human reactions, day 13._

_After many experiments, I have come to a simple conclusion: people care about other’s opinions. Be it a friend or just anyone, commenting on how something is stupid or bad results in protest, more or less violent. Insistence on the point often brings either to certain violence or, surprisingly, tears._  
I told Basil that racing cars are stupid, and he gave me a black eye. Before that, I told Jeremy the jumper his mother had made him was ugly, and he cried. Another time, I told Robert that his favourite book is bad, because the plot didn’t make sense, and he too reacted poorly.  
None of these people are my friends. Why do they care? Mycroft, Mummy and Daddy don’t care when I tell them a movie is stupid.  
Mr Thompson said my opinions come out as “too strong”. That moderating my words and saying things like “I think this is silly” or “I don’t like this” is a better way rather than stating my opinion as absolute facts.  
I do not understand why it matters.

_Needs further research._

Underneath, was another note, the date reading “May 6th, 1998. The handwriting was more similar to Sherlock’s now, the letters smaller and more orderly, but still as spidery as they always were. They read:

_Further notes on human reactions to opinions:_

_Stating opinions as described above only works so much. People take it as a challenge to prove me wrong and they want to engage in a conversation on how their point of view is superior, or absolute, and mine is wrong. That is not at all what I try to accomplish whenever I say things.  
After many such engagements, people seem to have finally given up. Either they realised discussing objective points of view bears no result, or they eventually realised that I don’t care for their opinions, and they shouldn’t care for mine. If I were to get irritated whenever someone said their opinion on what I do, I would never get anything done._

Sherlock read the last few words and frowned at the page. He mumbled something under his breath, his mind already working, and he picked up a pen to add new data:

_Ulterior notes on human reactions to opinions:_

_Previous data fails to account for “sentiment”._  
It should be noted that children are more openly passionate than adults are, because they haven’t yet developed the necessary skills to relate themselves with others without resorting to basic animal reactions such as snapping, yelling and pushing, or crying.  
It is true that I never cared what anyone thought of my interests, or me, even at such a young age. I’ve always had better control of me and my emotions, knowing I was smarter than most people in the room. That didn’t always make me right, but it helped in the feeling that I shouldn’t care what anyone said, because their opinions were stupid.  
However, I now find that the “sentiment” aspect of this should be factored in. There is a person whose opinion now matters to me and, apparently, my opinions matter to him as well. When I told Victor of my hatred for jazz music, he didn’t say anything but looked what I understand was “upset”.  
It’s the first time I see such a behaviour since I was a child. Either Victor can’t control his emotions, same way a child can’t, or he genuinely cares about my opinion. But my opinion doesn’t and shouldn’t count in his enjoyment for jazz music, the way his dislike for the opera doesn’t keep me from enjoying it, even though it upsets me we cannot enjoy it together.  
This is baffling to me.

_How to proceed: refrain from stating my opinions in front of Victor._

Satisfied with his conclusions, Sherlock skirted all the way to the last pages, where he was taking not of how his relationship with Victor was developing.

If he were honest, Sherlock wasn’t sure how it had started in the first place. He remembered meeting Victor – which would have been hard to forget, considering how the man’s dog had nearly ripped his leg off – and he remembered being surprised by the way he didn’t seem to mind his deductions the way others did.

Sherlock found he liked the man in turn and now they had developed what was… not quite a friendship, but not anything more either. Taking notes about it helped Sherlock understand where this was going, up to a point, but it also made him nervous. It wasn’t an experiment, he was just writing down things as happened, and yet it still wasn’t clear to him what was happening.

For now, the nineteen years old was satisfied, and he closed his journal with a smile, putting it back in its drawer.

***

It wasn’t until years later that Sherlock would return to those pages of his journal.

His friendship with Victor had brushed the romantic entanglement, only to then crash and burn on a fateful summer when Sherlock solved the case of how Victor’s father died.

Life had moved on, and the latest entries to the journal before he gave up on it were muddled sentences (sometimes completely incoherent, denoting the best ways to get drugs from people, be it by manipulation or favours), addiction making Sherlock’s mind lose focus.

Sherlock disregarded those entries, focusing on reading his notes about opinions.

He had acquired a flatmate, an ex-soldier and a doctor, and for some reason Sherlock had decided he didn’t want to risk the man leaving quite yet. He was a curious person, this John Watson, and Sherlock hoped to keep him.

That is why he had pulled out his journal and was checking all the things he had studied about what people liked, so that he could do his best to keep John. As he checked his notes, though, he frowned. Thinking back on their first encounter, he realised he had done pretty much everything in his “to avoid” list.

He had deduced John’s recent life story from his second hand phone. He had expressed strong opinions (“You’re an idiot. Oh, don’t worry, practically everyone is”). He had even dismissed John’s arguments about the importance on the Solar System, when the most important item on his list was “ _always make people think they’re right_ ”.

He had done all that – and John liked him anyway.

John accepted that he wasn’t good with people, that his brain-to-mouth filter was broken most of the time, that his empathy was malfunctioning and his insults and comments weren’t malicious, just expressed poorly. Yet he called him out when he hurt someone’s feelings without realising, not in the way his teachers used to, but in a stern yet gentle way that made him feel guilty, but not stupid.

Sherlock opened the journal to a new page and began taking notes:

_March 23rd, 2010_

_Notes on the Observation of John H. Watson  
Soldier, doctor, flatmate._

_Friend?_


End file.
